[ooc: set to some point during Deathly Hallows, ch. 22]
Harry has been worrying her for quite a number of days now.
It isn't that his health is depleting (though there is that, too - but they're all exhausted, the three of them), or that he's begun to isolate himself from her and Ron.
It's the Deathly Hallows.
('But don't you see? It all fits
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It isn't that he made for a truly terrible guard - for more than a good portion of his time on watch he had been perfectly vigilant and even wielding one of Hermione's burnt mushrooms in hand as though it had been the sword of Gryffindor - but as the night wore on, boredom had taken over and sleepiness had sunk in.
As it is, half-dozing with cheek in hand and blankly staring at the fire in front of him, he starts when Hermione touches his arm.
And nearly pelts her in the eye with the mushroom.
"Bloody hell, Hermione," he gasps. "Make a bit more noise next time, would you?"
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But she quells it.
After all, now is really not the time for things like that.
Instead, she simply blinks at the mushroom, rolls her eyes a little, and lets out a vaguely indignant breath to make up for the lack of rebuke.
"I thought you'd finished your dinner," she says instead, gesturing.
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His rumbling stomach agrees too. But they've had this conversation before, haven't they?
"What're you doing awake anyway? It's not time to switch yet, is it?"
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"No," she answers, shrugging a little.
(She suddenly wishes she'd thought to put on her jumper or something before stepping out.)
Then: "I couldn't sleep."
(Which is clearly not a problem for the boys.)
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